John's Existential Crisis
by Fredosphere
Summary: Through his wife's illness, John learns a horrifying truth about himself.
1. Chapter 1

"Doctor, can't you just give her, I don't know, an injection or something?"

Obergruppenführer John Smith sneaked a look at his wife in the adjoining room. She sat there on the couch, staring vacantly at her hand as it stroked the crushed velour upholstery, alternately raising the nap and wiping it back down. He had married her for her face, with its perfect Nordic forehead and cheekbones and the porcelain perfection of its complexion, but now that face was a slack thing, flaccid and dead.

"She just sits there, all day. She'll answer a direct question, but otherwise…"

"Not so easy, this." Dr. Junker was German-born and German-trained; Dr. Adler had called him the finest psychiatrist in the Greater Reich. If he were saying the case was hopeless, then it was hopeless. However, Smith was not a man who was used to hearing "no"—and Dr. Junker had not _exactly_ said "no".

"See here, there must be something. Anything must be better than this. As she is now, I've lost her. My wife is _gone_. My marriage…" Smith gestured helplessly. Junker had certainly dealt with _that_ problem before. He would understand Smith's frustration without needing it spelled out.

"I have something that will temporary relief provide. But to treat symptoms is most folly. In such cases _die Erste Ursache_ one must find. Give me six months to psychoanalyze her and then a course of treatment I will suggest."

Smith took second place to no one in his enthusiasm for German culture, but Herr Docktor's accent and ridiculous mangling of English taxed his patience.

"Thank you, Junker. I will call you if I need anything else. I believe you know your way out."

" _Ja,_ and good day to you _Herr Obergruppenführer._ "


	2. Chapter 2

The evening meal was a dreary affair. Since the accident that had taken their beloved son, the Smiths had been in mourning. Yet Helen's veil of silence was something more recent. Smith was certain the death of Thomas was not _die Erste Ursache_ —the root cause—of his wife's mental breakdown.

 _Surely she doesn't suspect that I—that Thomas' death was anything but— No. Dr. Adler wouldn't dare say a word._

"Helen, would you please pass the sauerkraut?" Smith watched his wife's hands lift the bowl like those of a alabaster robot. He glanced at his daughters. They, too, felt the effect of a wife and mother who was present in body but whose spirit might as well have been at the Moon Base.

 _That does it. I'm taking the next step._


	3. Chapter 3

Night came and the girls were gone.

John Smith laid his wife out on the couch. She did not offer any resistance; she hardly showed curiosity as her husband handled her like a rag doll. He had brought strips of cloth to tie her hands and feet, but he doubted they would be necessary.

He held a syringe before her eyes. "Helen, this is something Dr. Adler gave me to help you. It's called truth serum. I'm going to inject you with it."

Helen did not react. He was right, the strips would not be needed.

Helen did not flinch even when the needle went into her arm. She waited patiently as John fiddled with the syringe in his inexperienced way. _I'm not_ completely _inexperienced,_ thought John. He had, after all, used a syringe in that dreadful business with Thomas.

John shut his eyes, then opened them again. He needed to watch what he was doing. He pulled out the needle and waited the necessary time. The cuckoo clock ticked and the wind outside blew. The girls had been sent to a friend's house for the night, and there were no servants or underlings from the office about. It was just him and Helen. Waiting.

"Helen, can you hear me?"

"Of course, John, I can hear you fine."

She had answered a yes-no question with a complete sentence. Helen had not been this responsive in months.

"Helen, you've been very quiet lately. I think you're depressed."

"I know, John. It's a realization I've had."

"A realization?"

"I've finally faced reality. I understand the meaning of life. And I don't like it."

"And what is this meaning of life you've discovered?"

"That resistance is futile. That the Will to Power is a lie."

That answer was not on John's list of expected answers. He hesitated. He was aware that philosophies of passivity existed; Hell, the Jews had deceived all Europe with their slave morality for centuries. Nevertheless, in argument, a Nazi could usually count on human nature as an ally. And human nature was fundamentally greedy, grasping, and acquisitive. People _wanted_ things and they fundamentally understood that a philosophy based on _confident action_ made sense.

Something in John snapped. He jerked Helen upright by her arm. She didn't resist or complain.

"I don't know who or what has made you like this but you're going to snap out of it right now!" John was closer than he had ever been to breaking the rule that a man never hits his wife.

"You know exactly what it is."

"What?"

"You've seen them. They're in your office. In your cabinet. The one you've been careless about locking during the day."

"Helen, there are some very, very sensitive papers in there. You have no business—"

"Very sensitive _movies,_ you mean."

"Good God, woman, you haven't touched _those_ , have you? You have no idea of the danger."

"I touched them. I watched them."

John's rage stopped his tongue. Now he really was ready to smack Helen right across the face.

"You've watched them too, John. Don't deny it. I've heard the projector running in the middle of the night."

"Those movies are propaganda from the resistance. They're full of lies."

"I wonder. They look like documentaries to me. Real newsreels—but…"

"But _what?_ "

"But from another world. _Another world,_ John."

"More lies."

"John, you've seen them and you know they're real."

John found he couldn't deny it. All he could do was quake with rage.

"But I wonder if you've drawn the obvious conclusions."

"Helen! There are no… _conclusions_. Reality is what we _make_ of it. It's the way of _der Übermensch._ Truth and Lie are irrelevant categories. Strength and Weakness are the only categories that matter. The enemy makes these movies to make you weak."

"You know, John, your philosophy is almost right. There is one set of categories that does matter. They're not Strength and Weakness. They're Author and Subject."

"You're talking nonsense. I'm going to call Dr. Adler right now. He'll give you something to shut you up. I'll _make_ him."

"You'll do that—if the Author says you can."

"Stop saying 'Author'!"

During this conversation, Helen's passivity had slowly leeched from her. She was now sitting bold upright, looming tall, with a smirk on her face. It was John who was shrunken and confused.

"John, answer one question. Face the facts like a _Nazi_. Does your mind ever go blank sometimes? Have you ever experienced Lost Time?"

"What kind of question—" The reply was half out of John's mouth before he stopped, dead, a look of terrified awe on his face.

"Do you ever feel like parts of your life really exist, in three dimensions, and other parts are just glossed over?"

"What are you driving at?"

"And isn't it true that the times of your life that _are_ real, if you put them all together, would tell a story on their own? A _narrative?_ "

"What you are saying"—John's words came out one at a time, as if speaking each one took heroic effort—"is the movies we've seen are the _reality?_ The _real_ reality? And we're just—what? Characters in a novel?"

Helen started laughing hysterically. "Oh, John! Look at your face! It's the Nietzschean hero, discovering he's nothing but a puppet! You're the helpless tool of some Almighty Author. My God, think of it—we know nothing of this Author! He could be some poor, insignificant artist, starving in a garret. He could be—O God!—he could be a Jew!"

John smacked Helen so hard she spilled off the couch.

She was on all fours, on the hardwood floor. It was hard to say whether the sound coming from her mouth was still laughter.

"Let's bow down to our master! Hail Author! Hail Surrender!"

"Shut up!"

"But it's worse than you think! O John, when you hear what I've found out…!"

"You're mad! When I'm done with you you'll never talk again."

"It's not just a novel! There are sequels! Spin-offs! Reboots and pre-quels! Do you have any idea what those are? Our story—the Author's story—is a novel, a TV show. There are multiple versions! There are copies of us, all slightly different, all equally helpless."

John watched her, his eyes dead, his hands weak and numb at his sides.

"There are even fan fictions! On the internet! O John, can you guess what a fan fiction is? Losers and amateurs who lack the talent to make something original steal characters from _real_ Authors and write copy-cat stories. It's pathetic! Can you believe it? Your god, John: he's some amateur! You're pathetic! You're nothing. You do exactly what the Author commands and _you're pathetic_!"

Slowly, inevitably, like a marionette, Obergruppenführer John Smith opened his mouth and spoke his final, idiotic words:

"What's an internet?"


End file.
